


Downpour

by pherede



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bladder urgency, Humiliation, M/M, Urination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:17:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherede/pseuds/pherede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bofur is desperate to urinate, but the storm and the wolves keep him in close quarters with his companions. He especially doesn't want to humiliate himself in front of Bilbo...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Downpour

**Author's Note:**

> You know that feeling when you get really curious about a kink, and you NEED to figure out what makes it work?
> 
> This is Kink Science, my friends.

The good thing, Bofur supposes, is that it's a good barn, well-made and ignored by whatever marauders burned the farmhouse. This far into the wilderness, it's rare to find any habitation still standing, let alone one with a solid roof and walls, a small space for thirteen dwarves and a hobbit with all their ponies, but still half-full of rotting hay.  
  
It's soggy enough for torches and no fear of fire, but torches don't warm the room, and the unseasonably icy storm outside is making the air absolutely frigid even with all the breathing bodies inside. The ponies cluster at one end, content in their shaggy fur and traces; the dwarves are practically pressed together at the other end, farthest from the door, laid out elbow to elbow upon their bedrolls, passing brandy around in a small keg to warm their fingers.  
  
Bofur has had a bit too much brandy, he suspects. If he were not seated against the wall, he would be dizzy; but he is not yet drunk. He has had enough, however, to present a different concern.  
  
He needs to piss.  
  
He is seated at the back wall, where he cannot even stretch his legs out because of the press of dwarves about him. To one side, the hulking form of Dwalin rests, conversing in low rumbles with Dori; to the other, Bilbo is quietly making himself busy with scraps of hay, which he is weaving into a tiny basket. Outside, sleet falls in icy knives against the stone, a high hiss that sounds like murder to go out in.  
  
The urge to piss is a twinge, now; a tickle, a leg-jittering pressure. He tries to sit still. If he gets up, he will have to stumble over all his brothers and cousins and fellows, push his way past the ponies, and stagger half-drunk out the door into the razor sleet to relieve himself. And of course he couldn't just go at the door; he would have to step a short distance away, where nobody would step in it come morning, and he would be soaked to the skin in a heartbeat.  
  
He considers making it as far as the ponies and stepping between them to piss, but the hot acrid scent of his own urine is nothing like that of pony urine, and when he imagines the shame of being called out on it his cheeks and throat heat up with humiliation.  
  
The brandy comes around again, and without thinking he drinks; the liquid hits his belly like a brand, and a moment later a sharp twinge hits him at the base of his abdomen. No more brandy, then. He only has to wait out the storm, he tells himself; in an hour, maybe, the sleet will stop, and he can go outside to relieve himself.  
  
He hopes he can wait an hour.  
  
The pressure grows, and becomes all he can think about; his knees jiggle uncontrollably, and there is a stab of urgency below his belly, a cramp in his bladder that makes him clench his jaw, that parts his lips in a hiss.  
  
Bilbo gives him a side-eye, half distracted, and goes back to weaving.  
  
By his beard, he needs to piss. He can feel it pressing, a terrible fullness, a liquid cramp that ebbs and rises within him. He stretches out his feet, hoping to relieve some of the tension; it helps a little, but then Dwalin laughs and jostles him, and Bofur gasps as another cramp hits, sharp stretching pain. He needs to piss so badly that his cock goes half-hard, like morning wood, and that only means more blood to the area and a thumping pulse in his groin that feels like a drumbeat against his taut bladder.

The others begin a song, something about wolves and a warrior; Bofur does not join in, and nobody seems to notice but Bilbo, who places a concerned hand on Bofur's rigid arm.  
  
"What's wrong," he says, and Bofur is swallowed in despair, in the thrill of being touched and the shame of being so full, in the shivers that assail him and the way his feet rub against each other helplessly as he struggles with his need.  
  
"Nothing," says Bofur. Even he can tell it's a lie.  
  
Bilbo leans in closer, until his lips nearly touch Bofur's ear, until his breath rushes warm and humid under the edges of Bofur's cap, and the very moisture on his breath is a torment. "Tell me," he says, and there is a faint tone in his voice that says _suspicion_ , and something else in the closeness of his body that makes Bofur shudder violently and, awfully, unthinkably, breaks the seal on his bladder.  
  
He does not let go-- not yet-- but his cock half-rises from the combined closeness of Bilbo and the clenching of all his muscles and the desperation of his spasms, and he gasps: "I need--"  
  
Bilbo glances down, sees the faint shape beneath his trousers, sees the way Bofur's fists clench; and he cocks his head, curious as ever about the ways of these strange dwarves, and he whispers: "Relief?"  
  
"Yes," says Bofur. Shivers pass through him from head to toe. In a moment he will explode, he will piss himself, he will be utterly humiliated forever; for this moment, for each moment in turn, he holds it in one moment longer.  
  
And Bilbo, bless him, though he blushes terribly, slips his hand under Bofur's blanket and across his body, and he _presses_ upon Bofur's groin with the heel of his hand. _Like this,_ Bofur barely hears him say, and he replies in a panic, gasping: _no-- I mean yes-- but no-- I need to piss--_

 _  
_"Oh," says Bilbo, burning even more red, but he doesn't remove his hand, as if he has waited for a very long time to place it there and now can't imagine removing it. Outside, the wolf howls, and Bilbo looks at the keg and looks at Bofur with dawning comprehension and, amazingly, sympathy.  
  
"Move," says Bofur, frantic, knowing that he has no more than a few seconds left of restraint. "Can't hold it--"  
  
He doesn't move; instead, Bilbo smiles ruefully, as if to say: _what can you do?_ and pinches him through the fabric, pinches his cock just below the head, sealing him against the deluge.  
  
Bofur relaxes, gasping and twitching, all seals broken and all muscles hanging limp; but there is still no relief from the spasming, from the cramps, from the agony, and still Bilbo holds him tight: a simple gesture, if a strange one, and effective, but the twinges that run through his groin in an effort to find release are ever more ferocious, and he knows Bilbo can feel him twitching.  
  
"I'll take care of it," says Bilbo, under his breath; then, louder, "Ori! Pass me the brandy, will you?"  
  
Ori barely looks as he tosses the small keg; he has always been a tad thoughtless, and with his free hand Bilbo manages to land it, rolling it to a stop. "Raise it," whispers Bilbo, and Bofur-- half out of his mind with the agonizing pressure-- complies, lifting it as if to drink, then lowering it upon his chest as though resting between sips.  
  
The mere weight of it is awful. Bofur gasps. "You'll be fine," says Bilbo, and he removes his hand.  
  
Bofur tries to keep it in; his feet kick against the cobble and his whole abdomen is racked with quivering, with sharp stabs of distress; but he can no more hold this flood in check than he can stop the storm, and he feels the first drops escape, feels the unbearable pleasure of warmth and release, and there is the rush of urine from his piss-slit, scalding and forceful and satisfying. It pools between his thighs, runs down onto the cobbles and soaks between them; and still it spurts from him, awful gushing release like nothing he has ever imagined.  
  
He pisses until the spasms begin to subside, until he is utterly empty, and the delicious shudders of his still-stretched bladder give way to a low and shivering ache; and Bilbo, who has carefully watched his face this entire time, grave eyes absorbing every gasp and flinch, lifts the brandy out of his arms, knocks the spigot out entirely, and upends the whole thing over Bofur's lap.  
  
It is not terribly cold, but compared to the cooling urine that still soaks Bofur's trousers it is shocking; he yelps, and Bilbo drops the keg-- still pouring from its bung-- onto Bofur's thighs, and then scrabbles around, seeming to be struggling to right it but ensuring that every drop spills onto Bofur's soaked trousers and blanket.  
  
The dwarves groan, and the astringent smell of alcohol fills the air. "Oh dear," says Bilbo, every inch the self-effacing hobbit, "oh dear, I think I've had a bit much, my hands don't quite go the way I put them." The keg is empty, and Bofur utterly drenched in brandy; their companions laugh, but there is no shame, only a mishap, a lightening of the mood against wolves and storms. Someone finds another cask from their supply, and the drinking goes on, while Bofur washes himself from the trough and changes clothing and Bilbo covers the cobble with a thick layer of hay; then Bofur returns, and in the dim brandy-scented haze he curls under his blanket beside Bilbo, and at last-- with no fear left in trading secrets-- they talk.


End file.
